


Nothing Left Here to Remind Me

by missbeizy



Category: Glee
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Drunkenness, F/M, Fluid Sexuality, Hurt/Comfort, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:05:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drunken hookup of a very unique kind leads to Kurt realizing just how much he wants to fix things with Blaine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Left Here to Remind Me

**Author's Note:**

> I've had several requests for Kurtana friendship/smut, so here you go--not sure how many people are even going to read this but, oh well, I enjoyed writing it! This is a pegging fic (strictly pegging, no other sexual interaction to speak of, no mutual touching or kissing, just fucking), and sort of a hurt/comfort fic as well. It's a consensual but mutually intoxicated sexual experience wherein Santana makes Kurt feel good but also guides him toward thinking of Blaine. It's not really about Santana and Kurt in any romantic way. It's more about Klaine, but I understand if it's not everyone's cup of tea. It's set during the "Guilty Pleasures" episode, so technically future fic. I hope someone gets a kick out of it. ;)

 

*

 

It had begun so innocently—and then someone had said the word "sangria" (Kurt suspects that it had been Rachel) and before he knows it they're dumping every bottle of cheap wine that they own into a five gallon bucket along with every fruit (he also suspects every vegetable) that they have lying around, some of which are more than questionable. They mush it around and wait about twenty minutes and then Santana starts scooping it out like pig feed and before he knows what he's doing he's chugging the swill like mother's milk.

Rachel passes out an hour into this insanity, leaving Kurt to deal with Santana who, surprise surprise, is a rude, emotionally abusive drunk. After several more glasses of the sangria, she bursts into tears.

"Mira, albino face," she says, smacking Kurt. "You know what I miss? Her fucking lips. It could be anything, I mean it is everything but—her lips. The way she kissed me like I was—so special." She dissolves into a string of unintelligible Spanish and sobbing and hand flailing.

Kurt stares at her; she's kind of fuzzy around the edges because Kurt is pretty drunk, himself, and he can't taste the sangria anymore so he just keeps drinking it. His face is numb.

"Your stupid goddamn almohadas," she cries. "This is all your fault." She throws the "girlfriend" pillow across the room. "You gave it boobs. You painted its fingernails. I hate your stupid pasty elf face and your stupid gravity-defying hair and your dumb girly mouth."

Kurt sighs. "You are the worst drinking partner. But you're a good friend."

She glares at him. "Stop being nice to me. It makes me want to hurt you."

"Your nails are fierce. Please don't go for the face."

She knocks back half a glass of sangria in one swallow, and points at him. "Let's talk about you. Let's talk about your pussy ass calling Blaine and telling him that you're so damned miserable that you've replaced him with a pillow that smells like him and don't lie to me Kurt Hummel that is our little Blainers' cologne. Everyone knows it. The bum on the corner that called me auntie knows it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Liar, liar, pants on fire," she says drunkenly, waggling her fingers in his face. "Mr. Leggy and British does not smell like that, and I know because I had to smell his ass for hours when we were snowed in and you lapsed into an emo-induced wedding fantasy coma which of course I had the obligation of explaining to the class—"

Kurt really can't blame her, though he'd been upset and angry at the time; it had forced him to tell Adam that he just couldn't continue doing whatever it had been that they were doing, and it had been a relief. Even though they had just gone on a few dates before Valentine's, sleeping with Blaine and then not telling Adam about that had made him feel guilty.

"Okay, okay—before you lapse back into your native tongue, I'm going to go crash." He pats her lightly and stumbles off in the direction of his bed.

She whimpers and waves a hand at him and clutches the bucket of sangria to her chest like she'd clutched the girlfriend pillow not long ago. He's pretty sure that she calls him a very unfriendly name in Spanish before he disappears into his area.

He passes out, only to be woken up in the middle of the night by Santana banging into his partition. "Alright, listen up, elven prince, Berry woke up and threw up all over the sofa, my bed, and then her own bed, so shove the hell over."

"What? Fuck. Santana, no." He squints. "Did you at least make sure that she's okay? I won't even ask if you cleaned up after her because I know you didn't." 

"She's fine. Although I think she's dressing up the boyfriend pillow in one of Finn's old puffy vests. You may want to have it sterilized if you want to use it again." She shoves him. "You weight like eight pounds, Hummel, and I'm pretty sure that seven of those are hair care product and the rainbow glitter that you poop out once a month. There is room for three of me in this bed." She collapses on top of him and then rolls over him, pulling all of the blankets around herself like a burrito.

He sighs. So much for sleeping it off peacefully.

He wakes up every time that she mutters in her sleep and of course she's a clinger, so her legs and arms keep tangling with his in a variety of uncomfortable ways. Normally he wouldn't mind lady time, but they're both still kind of drunk and he can't relax this way. The third or fourth time he wakes up she has one hand on his stomach and her pelvis snug up against his ass, and—yeah. It's definitely weird.

The thing is, he is about as gay as gay can get. He has no concept whatsoever of finding women attractive (even Blaine had been able to theorize about it). His body is totally disconnected from the sexual function of boobs and the vagina (the thought makes him feel kind of gross, actually), so it's not as if there's anything superficial that appeals him about Santana.

It's more like—she kind of has more machismo than most of the guys he knows, and he has always been unable to group her completely in the untouchable female category.

He is sickeningly drunk and lonely, and he misses Blaine so much that he can't even talk about it because if he starts he won't stop. He's actually been turning off his phone for huge stretches of time to squash the temptation to call or text Blaine and talk about what the hell is going on between them.

Which is a whole lot of nothing and will continue to be that way if he keeps ignoring Blaine's calls.

So it feels good, her warm, long body behind him, in a way that cuddling with Rachel simply can't; Santana is not as close, emotionally speaking, to him as Rachel, and she's kind of one of the boys, and he has always found her fierceness to be all kinds of awesome, even when it is directed negatively at himself. The truth is, their bitchiness bonds them, and he has always liked her.

"Fuck, Hummel, you're like sleeping with a teenage girl. The hell do you do to stay so soft?" she hisses in his ear (she's far more drunk than he is, and he wonders if she'd finished off the sangria).

"Santana," he growls, very close to smothering her with a pillow. He just wants to sleep.

"Hey hey, listen—" She scoots even closer, and her hand lands without warning on his ass. "Listen."

"Santana!" he jerks away from her, eyes going wide.

"Look, this is a—a totally awful idea but—how about we have some lady time, huh? Just to take the edge off. Doesn't have to be—you don't have to touch my girly bits and I won't touch your dangly parts, but—" Her breath comes hot against the back of his neck. "I have a strap-on."

His reaction is equal parts theoretical interest and revulsion, which—as it turns out—isn't the worst combination for a gut-based, instantly positive sexual reaction. His cock throbs in his boxers, simply from the idea of being fucked, and he knows that she knows that it had worked.

She isn't gentle when she bites his shoulder to get his attention. "Come on, pretty. No one has to know. You game?"

He can't believe that he's actually considering this. It's wrong, of course; his first thought is about the last time he'd been fucked, ankles around his ears in his bedroom at home before he'd driven Blaine to the airport after the wedding that wasn't. He shivers, remembering the way it had felt to be pounded into the mattress with Blaine's hands around the headboard, slamming it into the wall over and over and over. Thinking of that is enough to get him fully hard. She had said she wouldn't touch his dick and he didn't have to touch her—ugh—so it wouldn't even be weird in that way, right?

"You are game," she confirms, darkly smug, low and rough and not even remotely feminine about it as she slaps his ass playfully.

"You'll tell," Kurt breathes, cock aching against his belly as she wriggles her long fingers down the back of his boxers.

"Why the hell would I want anyone to know? It's not earning me any points," she replies, and—fingernails along his crack, that's new—pushes him onto his stomach. "Come on, baby. Kneel up for me."

The command makes him shudder—she flat out confuses him, and it's that alone that allows him to do as she asks. He doesn't kneel, but he does bring his knees up underneath his body.

She stumbles out into the apartment and then comes back with her strap-on and lubricant.

"Condoms," she breathes. "You have?"

"Of course I have condoms." She peeks into his bedside table and comes back with several. It takes her ages to get the latex onto the strap on, and then even longer to get her legs into the straps and around her hips and waist.

He can't stop staring. The dildo is huge, black and curved wickedly, and it makes his body clench with wanting it. God, it's been so long—and again he thinks of Blaine, sweating so profusely above him that he'd been rained on by salty droplets the entire time, Blaine drawing it out sweet and long, making him hurt a little, and he'd almost felt like he deserved it, and it had felt amazing, too much sensation, too much friction, Blaine undeniable and present and not willing to fade from his life.

"I've done this with the ladies," Santana says, grinning. "It's not just a boy thing, you know."

"Please—I do not need to know." 

"Say please again, but not like that." She drags his boxers down over his ass and he feels the wet, cool dribble of lubricant fall all over his ass.

"Your nails—"

"Baby," she croons, working the lubricant between his cheeks. "I'm a lesbian. They're smooth as silk, trust me."

"Oh my god, this is insane." What's truly insane is that he's shaking with anticipation; his body is literally vibrating on the bed, his cock leaking against the sheets, and she doesn't even have to tease him to get his hips up. 

He knows that he shouldn't do this—all he can think of is Blaine—but he's single and lonely and drunk and the craziest thing about it is that Santana actually feels safe. He somehow knows that she won't hurt him or judge him, even if she makes fun of him the whole time. Maybe she's lonely, too. Maybe she just wants to feel close to someone in her drunken haze, too. Does that make it okay? He doesn't know.

Her fingers are as capable as any man's; she edges them in slowly, so slowly that he feels the insertion of every knuckle. He clasps a pillow to his face and feels his shoulders arch and his ass rise into her hands.

"Yeah, give it up, just like that," she murmurs, massaging his cheeks and rim and thighs with her free hand. He doesn't even wait for her to bother with his prostate; he doesn't care. He just wants to feel the burn when his body stretches, he just wants to feel full. He wants to feel the way it felt the last time he had been with Blaine, all urgency and sharp-edged goodbye in every thrust and the scrape of fingernails over Kurt's back.

"Please," he whimpers, when she's three fingers in and moving fast. "Please, fuck me." He's already lost in his own personal fantasy, too far gone to wonder if she's in hers, if she's imagining some pretty, flushed woman beneath her. If she's thinking about Brittany—and Kurt still has some memory there, he admits—about those long legs and all that blond hair.

"You ask so nicely," she replies, shifting up between his knees and pushing them apart. "I can see why little Blainers is pining so hard."

He wants to ask. He needs to know; is Blaine still determined? Has he given up on Kurt? Would that make it easier, if Kurt just faded into the background? But he hasn't been speaking to Blaine out of sheer survival instinct and he can't bring himself to—

She lines up the blunt head of the dildo and strokes his gaping, slick hole with it for a while. She even dips down to push it against his perineum, massaging him with slow circles. He whimpers and twists as his prostate is stimulated from the outside, surprise evident in every tense line of his body.

"I fucked guys for a long time, if you recall. McKinley had its fair share of kinky lads." She laughs, and he can feel the smooth length of her thighs against the hair-dusted backs of his own.

"Santana," he moans. Her nails scrape up his t-shirt clad back and tangle roughly in his hair. He stutters out a breath, liking the way that it hurts.

"Press back into me."

He lets the breath out of his lungs and slowly, slowly, impales himself on the dildo. It's not as rigid as some that he's used during his occasional, solitary acts of desperation, which is really pleasant—it almost yields a little, just like flesh. He bends, back down, ass up, and she keeps pulling his hair.

"Oh fuck yes," she gasps.

He guesses it's one of those strap-ons that has fun parts on the opposite end as well, judging by the sudden intake of her breath that rasps between them.

It takes a while and a second, sloppy application of lubricant, but eventually she's all the way in, and it feels so fucking good—it hurts but in the best way possible. It's a terrible angle for his prostate but that doesn't seem to matter; she puts a thumb under his balls and seems to know exactly what to do, anyway. He's so wet, so full.

"Oh god," he gasps, twitching as she starts fucking him and rubbing that spot at the same time.

"Jesus, look at you take all that," she moans, and stops stroking to slap his ass. He shouldn't like that but he does; it hurts just long enough to shock his nerves into awareness but not long enough to sting. "God, you really weren't letting that Adam guy tap this, were you? So tight. When was the last time someone fucked you, Hummel?"

"Blaine," he moans, and—okay—it feels good, too good to moan that name right now. "Right before he went home, after the wedding."

"Really," she gasps, shifting on her knees and fucking him faster—her breath has gone uneven, and her fingers aren't entirely steady around his hips. "I always thought that it was the other way around with you two." The wet, slick noise of his body opening for her with every thrust rings in his ears.

He doesn't want to share private details, but—on second thought that seems kind of stupid considering she has an eight inch dildo up his ass. "Mostly it is, we don't—like that stereotype, though, we're both comfortable with—we both like—" She swivels her hips and he whimpers, feeling sweat drip down his thighs. "Oh yeah, oh god, right there." Pleasure rips down his spine.

"Vocal, too," she gasps out. "I like that. I bet Blaine likes it, too, huh?"

"Y-yes—"

"Bet he can get kind of loco, too, all possessive and shit," she growls, slamming into him so hard that his knees sink lower onto the bed. She hoists him up by his hips effortlessly, guiding him to sit back against her. "Baby, you might wanna take care of yourself. I promised I wouldn't go near it."

He hasn't even thought about it; being filled up and pounded into has been more than pleasurable enough. But now that she's mentioned it—

He takes himself in hand, sitting up higher on his knees. It's like adding delicious smell to beautiful sound—the combination goes right to his center, a relief that he didn't know he needed to be satisfied, and soon enough he's bouncing on the dildo and stroking himself alternately.

He knows when she comes because she lets out a rough cry and tenses all over and grinds into him with these small, short jerks that tell the story in clear detail. He tries not to think about it, because it really does absolutely nothing but throw him out of his own solitary enjoyment, but there's wetness on her thighs and it sticks to him when she fucks back into him, hard and fast.

He's so close, now, that nothing else seems to matter. Her nails are digging marks into his hips, and before he realizes it he's sitting up on his knees to drive himself directly down onto her cock—the thought happens before he can remind himself that it's not a cock, it's just—

"God, that's hot. Yeah. Ride me. Ride me hard." Her belly presses against this lower back.

He does, shaking, muscles aching for a more relaxed position. Her hips are soft against his cheeks, and he has to admit that it's not much different than Blaine's neatly waxed skin. 

"He'd be so good to you if he were here, wouldn't he?" she whispers, letting him do the work for a moment. "He'd be whispering dirty, lovey bullshit in your ear, he'd be stroking you, he'd—tell you how gorgeous you look, how much he loves the way you feel around him, that you're so tight, so hot for him."

"Oh, fuck," Kurt gasps, jerking himself faster. It's all he needs to spur himself along.

"He'd tell you how much he loved you, and you'd fall apart because—that's how you guys roll, yeah, like some smutty Romeo and Juliet, right?"

And in his head he hears it all in Blaine's voice, and it's true, everything that she's saying is true—

She grabs him around the waist and fucks up into him deeply, and that's all he needs; he bucks and comes, going still with the dildo deep inside of him and shooting over his hand and all over the bed. He bites his lips shut to stop from crying out Blaine's name. It feels amazingly good, especially when she just stays here, hard and unflagging inside of him.

He doesn't fall forward because the sheets are a wet mess, but she—kind of hugs him from behind, and they kneel together in the dense darkness, shaking in each other's arms.

"It's okay, you know," she breathes, sounding very unlike herself. "You guys—it's gonna work out. Not like me and Brit. I screwed that up. She's too good for me, anyway. But you and Blaine—stop being a fucking idiot and call him, Hummel."

He doesn't say anything, and the last thing he remembers is sliding into unconsciousness in her arms on the dry side of the bed.

In the morning, she's already showered and dressed and on her way to a job interview. He stops her with a cup of coffee. He doesn't know what to say. It had been the oddest sexual experience of his life, to say the least.

She holds up her pinky finger and he wraps his around it. "Are we okay?" She smirks. "We never have to talk about this again?"

He laughs. "Honey," he says, "you don't have to worry about that for a second." He smiles. "As weird as this sounds, thank you."

She shrugs. "Don't go all Ya-Ya Sisterhood on me, babyface." But she's smiling, and her eyes are bright.

He watches her walk away, smirking. He has a lot to think about. And a phone call to make.


End file.
